Bonfire (22 page)

‘Aksil is returning home, Mr. Hayes,’ Muntasser said with his cannonball-like face appearing around the front passenger seat. His eyes held mine expecting a response. When none came he said, ‘The Berber tribe from which Aksil comes live in the mountain villages. They raise goats and tend fig and apricot orchards.’

‘We’re not going to the mountains,’ I said. ‘Our target is located on the northern coastal plain, which is in front of the escarpment before we reach the steep slopes. This is not a family visit.’

‘You are right,’ Muntasser said. ‘And, anyway, all of Aksil’s family are dead. Artillery shelling and rockets killed them. Except his cousin, but now, the bomb kills him, too.’ Muntasser shook his head thoughtfully. ‘They are an unlucky family.’

‘Aksil, I’m sorry,’ I said. Aksil bowed once in recognition of my sympathy for the loss of his family. ‘Muntasser, you should call your headquarters in Tripoli and organise your men. They need to leave right away.’

‘Yes, I will call now,’ Muntasser said and then spoke in Arabic to Aksil before lifting the phone to his ear. Aksil’s black slits never left the road.

I glanced behind and saw the BMW on our bumper. Cakes was driving with Mick in the passenger seat cleaning his FAMAS-G2 rifle.

‘Have you come up with a plan yet?’ Cakes said. His voice was in my ear thanks to the CDL system.

‘I’m working on it,’ I replied.

‘How are the chuckle brothers?’

‘A laugh a minute,’ I said.

‘Magda’s tracker signal hasn’t moved and her heart’s still beating.’

‘I know,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a phone, too.’

‘Either London doesn’t know we have the trackers working again or they don’t care,’ Cakes said.

‘Why block the signal and then allow us to have it again?’ Mick said. ‘It doesn’t make any sense.’ He was probably right, but still there was something odd about it.

‘Once we get there we’ll make our move quickly,’ I said. ‘Waiting until after dark is pointless. We don’t have any night vision equipment and we don’t know how long Magda has.’

‘How long Magda has before what?’ Cakes said.

‘Before they kill her,’ I said.

‘We don’t know that,’ Cakes said. ‘If they wanted her dead they could have just killed her in her home.’

‘Not if they want to film it or do it in a particular way,’ I said.

‘Perhaps it’s only a kidnapping,’ Mick said. ‘Perhaps they’re after a ransom.’ Before I had a chance to respond Muntasser’s big face appeared around the seat again. His expression was one of a man for whom apologies came hard.

‘What is it?’ I asked.

‘My men do not want to help,’ Muntasser said. For a second, I thought he was joking, but his face told me otherwise and, anyway, Muntasser was not a man who joked.

‘Why not?’ I asked calmly or as calmly as I could.

‘They do not care about the woman,’ he said. ‘They will not risk their lives for her.’

‘Al Bousefi’s group set off the bomb outside the al-Barouni house that killed their fellow police officers,’ I said. ‘They wouldn’t be saving Magda they’d be revenging their murdered colleagues.’

‘Those men are dead,’ he said resignedly. ‘My men do not wish to join them. Al Bousefi’s group has a reputation. The Islamic extremism makes them fearless and very dangerous. They fight with jihadist belief, unafraid of death and brutal in their want to kill the infidels. Do you understand?’

‘Yes, I understand,’ I said. ‘Your men are weak and cowardly.’ Muntasser shrugged.

‘Perhaps,’ he said. ‘Or, perhaps, they do not wish to die so easily.’ I kept my anger in check.

‘You could order them to help us,’ I said. ‘This morning you were shouting at them and they were afraid.’ Muntasser nodded.

‘Yes, that is true. However, this morning we were safe inside our compound. I would not be chief of police for very long if I sent my men on dangerous missions and they did not come back because they were dead.’ Hiding my displeasure and disappointment from my face was not possible, but I did remain silent.

‘Mr. Hayes, I am sorry, but if you want to save Magda Jbara then you must do it with your two men, Aksil and me alone.’ A difficult task had just become much harder. Without Muntasser’s men and the firepower they would bring, the plan I had been slowly building in my mind would require a rethink if a rethink were possible.

‘We have a development,’ I said to Cakes and Mick through the CDL. ‘Muntasser’s men won’t be joining us.’

‘Why not?’ Mick said.

‘They’re afraid,’ I said. ‘They think the Islamic extremists will kill them, and Muntasser won’t order them to come because he’s worried about losing his job as police chief.’ Watching through the rear window, I saw the BMW brake hard and then stop. ‘Aksil, stop the Range Rover,’ I said loudly. Muntasser turned and looked at me with a questioning frown. ‘Cakes has stopped,’ I explained. Muntasser spoke to Aksil in Arabic and then he braked the 4x4 to a halt. ‘Go back,’ I said. Aksil reversed to where the stationary BMW had pulled off the faded tarmac onto the bare arid ground. I got out and walked over.

‘You can’t stop here,’ I said. ‘This section is a “no parking” zone.’ Cakes stared at me through the open driver’s door window. My attempt at humour produced nothing more than a hardening of his jaw line and a flash of emotion that told me he was pivoting between anger and exasperation. ‘How was I supposed to know Muntasser’s police force was a bunch of scaredy-cats?’

‘You should have known,’ Cakes said. ‘That’s what you’re good at, knowing things.’

‘All right, I got this one wrong,’ I said, ‘but we’ve still got Aksil and Muntasser and their Range Rover, which is full of hardware. It’s like a mobile gun store.’ Cakes inhaled deeply and I watched his chest rise and fall. ‘I’ve got a plan,’ I said.

‘Have you?’ he said with a sceptical expression that matched his sceptical voice.

‘What is it?’ Mick asked in a more favourable tone.

‘To knock on the door and ask if we can have our playmate back,’ Cakes said. The return of his sense of humour cheered me. I took it as an encouraging sign.

‘We were still going to have to do it ourselves,’ I said, ‘even with the assistance of Muntasser’s men. You know that. And we each know that our only option is stealth.’ Despite his show of reluctance, I knew that Cakes was not a man to quit or walk away from a fight. ‘Don’t you want to find out if we can do it?’ I said. It was the right thing to say.

‘All right, let’s get there and take a look,’ Cakes said. His face softened. It was not a smile, but his jaw unclenched. ‘What’s the plan?’ he asked.

‘I’ll tell you when we get there,’ I said. The jaw line hardened again.

Back inside the Range Rover, the chief of police and his trusted Berber officer viewed me expectantly. ‘Are we still going?’ Muntasser asked.

‘Yes, we’re still going,’ I said.

‘Good. Aksil is not scared,’ he said. ‘And he would very much like to revenge the death of his cousin.’

‘And what about you?’ I said.

‘I am looking forward to seeing what you do,’ Muntasser said.

‘Are you going to help or just watch?’ I asked. Muntasser’s face showed the appropriate amount of indignation.

‘I will help, of course,’ he said, ‘where I can.’

Claudia held the Chief’s eyes with an assertive glare, insistent and strong that was wholly genuine. The natural, honest emotions consuming her body made acting, despite her talents in that direction, unnecessary.

‘We had an agreement,’ she said. Her voice matched the glare, which intensified with every word. The Chief, unmoved by Claudia’s passionate display, paused deliberately before speaking.

‘I gave you my word,’ he said. This was all the reassurance he felt it necessary to give.

‘When?’ she asked.

‘All in good time,’ the Chief said. ‘We don’t want to compromise the operation.’

‘You keep saying that.’

‘Keeping Hayes alive will require patience. We must balance the timeline of events very carefully.’

‘They’re leaving Zawiya,’ Jerry said. Although clearly exasperated and prepared to debate the point further, Claudia held her tongue and looked up at the large display screen, which showed the three tracker signals moving south.

‘It looks like they’re going after Magda,’ Jerry said.

‘Tell me,’ Claudia demanded.

‘I will,’ the Chief said, ‘but only when it is necessary and of use to him. At this point, all we can do is wait.’

‘Why did you lie to Hayes about your location?’ Jerry asked. Claudia replied without hesitation.

‘…because I want him to trust me,’ she said.

‘You hope to gain his trust by lying to him,’ Jerry said.

‘Yes, isn’t that the basis of all modern government and of every intelligence service that has ever existed?’

‘You’re quite right, my dear,’ the Chief said. ‘One thing, though, be careful to those you voice such truths. To the ears of some, it brings nothing except disquiet.’

Mahmoud al-Barouni and his son, Moha Hassan, turned off the smooth tarmac onto the rough dirt track and the surface change caused the Mitsubishi to buck like a startled deer before it settled into a running staccato rhythm.

‘How did you know where to turn?’ Moha asked his father. ‘This track is hidden from the road.’

‘I’ve driven here before,’ Mahmoud said. ‘I know the way.’

‘How much further is it?’

‘From here to there and no more.’ Moha had heard that answer before from his father. The young man turned his head away and focused through the passenger seat window at the barren, rock-strewn land that stretched until it disappeared inside a miasma-veiled horizon. The landscape of everyone’s home appears normal, familiar and safe no matter how different, unusual and hostile it may appear to an outsider. Moha loved Libya. Those who would do it harm with their extremism he hated. He was young and open-minded with a liberal belief in individual freedom: The freedom to believe, to express, the freedom to live. That was why he spied for the British against the fundamentalists and why he so admired Magda Jbara. She was his beacon, his treasure and his desire. How a young woman could bravely stand against the prejudices despite the risk to her own safety gave Moha hope for a better Libya. The thought of her with Suleiman Al Bousefi made him choke as if his lungs had lost their ability to reflate. The thought of her dead caused not just breathing difficulty, but an overwhelming constriction of his entire body as if held in the crushing force of a giant fist or squashed beneath a giant boot.

Mahmoud braked the Mitsubishi and it made his son turn sharply and look at the track ahead. ‘Guards,’ Mahmoud said. ‘We post them on the access road. They patrol the perimeter, too.’ Moha eyed the white Toyota Landcruiser that was parked side-on and blocked their path with a disciplined expression that he knew his father would like. An assault rifle decorated a shoulder of every guard and each wore the black robes that signified their allegiance to the zealot cause.

The Arabic greeting through the open driver’s door window from the senior guard showed the necessary respect towards such a high official within the organisation. Mahmoud accepted the man’s subservient address and replied to him assertively with equal respect and the authority that came from his high-ranking position.

‘This is my son, Moha Hassan,’ Mahmoud said. ‘Moha, this is Abu, a strong and dependable man.’ Abu leant in and the man’s features took Moha aback. They were so prominent and threatening it seemed his face blocked out the light.

‘Your bravery brings credit on your father,’ Abu said.

‘Yes, he is brave, but he cannot shoot straight,’ Mahmoud said and smiled with paternal pride. Abu remained tactfully silent on the subject of Moha’s failed attempt to carry out the political assassination in Tripoli that had put the young man in front of a police firing squad. The escape from which still had Abu perplexed despite the explanation circling that had, reportedly, come from Al Bousefi.

‘Is everyone here?’ Mahmoud asked.

‘Yes, you are the last to arrive,’ Abu replied. ‘I will tell the guard on the gate to expect you.’ Abu signalled to a younger man to move the Landcruiser and allow the Mitsubishi to pass. Mahmoud gave a silent acknowledgement and then drove on. Abu watched and thought again of the police firing squad and the explanation that puzzled him.

‘Without such men the Brotherhood cannot hope to achieve its aims,’ Mahmoud said. ‘Brutality is as important as prayer when it comes to ruling Libya.’ Moha fought to avoid offering his father an alternative view on the subject of ruling Libya. It was an internal struggle with which he was familiar and, as always, he was successful. Moha was a good spy.

The remaining journey was thankfully brief. Moha held his tongue while listening to his father extol the virtues of a strong Islamic state and the brutal rule of law with which it came.

The first building appeared behind a rise along a turn in the track that dropped beyond a dimpled hillock spotted by sand rocks. Blocked walls matched the terrain in which it nestled and hid the toil of construction with natural acceptance.

More guards wearing the same black robes and the same shoulder adornment stood and watched as the Mitsubishi drove past. ‘That is where Al Bousefi houses his personal guard when he is here. Abu and his men, also, stay there.’

The track turned once more and then travelled straight dissecting twin mounds with a surgeon’s precision until it crested the rise and ran into the distance beside a ridge of dunes. The view beyond was dominated by the escarpment, which rose in long steps and led into the Nafusa Mountain range. Whoever had decided on this isolated location had chosen well, Moha thought and then the irony almost caused him to smile.

After a final turn below a sandstone outcrop, the second building appeared and the track ended. Its imposing outer wall loomed with medieval intent.

‘It looks like a castle,’ Moha said. As if to support his observation, the heavy wooden door swung slowly open in a manner reminiscent of a drawbridge. Mahmoud drove through and they entered a courtyard full of vehicles. He spotted a gap and squeezed the Mitsubishi between an Audi and a Fiat.

Moha got out and walked slowly towards the arched entrance while he studied the block stone structure. The falling afternoon sun shot rays of yellow through the high turrets and created a deep contrast of light and dark that only served to strengthen the building’s beauty and atmosphere.
It is a pity.

‘Come, Moha,’ his father called and beckoned him towards the entrance. They stepped together into a wide reception hall, dark and cool, silent and tranquil. Suleiman broke the peace.

‘Mahmoud, my oldest friend, you have come.’ It seemed to Moha that his aura came out of the gloom to greet them before his person such was the presence and character of the man.

‘On such a day I could never stay away,’ Mahmoud replied. The two men embraced and then Suleiman turned his head.

‘Moha, it pleases me to see you alive,’ he said. The gaze from Suleiman’s eyes lingered as if he was trying to read print that was too small.

‘Allah has spared my son,’ Mahmoud said.

‘Yes,’ Suleiman agreed. ‘Perhaps Allah has some greater purpose planned for Moha.’

‘Whatever may be expected of me I shall do my upmost to be worthy,’ Moha said.

‘Now that you are here we can begin,’ Suleiman said. ‘Come this way.’ Over his shoulder, he added, ‘The imam is anxious to get away.’

Inside the main hall, Suleiman left Mahmoud and Moha in the company of the other guests. They were all senior members of the Brotherhood. Mahmoud, immediately, began talking with his connections and quickly included his son in the discussions. Moha joined in loyally, but his thoughts were elsewhere. He had divided attention, the bigger part of which centred on the phone he carried concealed inside his pocket. It was the phone given to him by Benjamin Chase.

The Chief lifted his telephone from the table and read the screen. ‘We have some photographs taken in the past few minutes of the Al Bousefi residence,’ he said. ‘I’ll put them on the screen.’ The Chief worked his phone and then the first picture came up. It was an overhead aerial shot showing a desolate landscape and two remote buildings.

‘Magda’s tracker signal is coming from the larger of the two buildings,’ Jerry said looking up from his laptop.

The second photograph showed a panoramic view of the escarpment, mountains and a pale blue skyline. ‘That’s the Nafusa Mountain range,’ Jerry said. ‘It’s home to a number of Berber villages.’

The Chief quickly moved on to the next. It was a close-up of the smaller building. From above, the dark figures stood out against the lighter roof, the stone blocks and sandy ground.

‘They look like fighters of Al Bousefi’s Islamic group,’ Jerry said. There followed a series of photographs all showing similar images and then appeared an overhead shot of the larger building. Again, dark figures on the roof and in the courtyard were clearly visible against the sun-bright sandstone and flat, washed-out roof panels.

‘More of Al Bousefi’s fighters,’ Jerry said.

The next photograph was a closer shot of the same building. Other fighters were evident and the courtyard held a number of vehicles.

‘Excuse me,’ the Chief said. ‘I’ll only be a minute.’ He stood up from the table with the phone in his hand and left the room. Claudia watched him leave and then she turned to Jerry.

‘How did we get these photos?’ Claudia asked.

‘From a satellite,’ Jerry answered.

‘How does a satellite take a panoramic photo of the Nafusa Mountains?’

‘Oh, you know… camera angles, mirror lens, things like that… it’s all very clever.’

‘Is it?’ Claudia said.

The Chief walked to the empty office at the end of the corridor, went inside and closed the door. Using the phone in his hand, he made a call.

‘I’ve looked at the photographs,’ he said. ‘As soon as I receive confirmation from our man on the ground I would like to proceed.’ Captain Robert Harding listened to the words his friend spoke and paused.
It is not in the stars to hold our destiny but in ourselves.

‘Do I still have your word on this?’ he asked.

‘The Foreign Office may fall when there’s no strength in the intelligence service,’ the Chief said. Harding was unsure whether the adapted quote from
Romeo and Juliet
made him feel better or worse.

‘All right,’ he said, ‘I’ll make the necessary preparations and await your final instruction.’

‘Include both buildings in your preparations,’ the Chief said.

‘Very well,’ Harding agreed and then heard the connection break as the Chief cut the line. He considered for a moment. ‘Mr. Castle,’ he said through the ship’s communication system, ‘make preparation for a live sortie if you please.’